


Dancing in the Mirror

by a_xmasmurder



Category: Sherlock (BBC), Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Dancing, Gen, Pining, Sherlock Season 3 Spoilers, Spoilers!, Teaching, The Sign of Three Spoilers, URT
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-12
Updated: 2014-01-21
Packaged: 2018-01-08 10:39:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1131666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_xmasmurder/pseuds/a_xmasmurder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock teaches John to dance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kedzie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kedzie/gifts).



> Just something...well, it happened. Things happen, yes? 
> 
> Anyway, I hope this is good. I hope people like it. *shrugs and crawls under a rug*

“You have two left feet, John.”

Coming back to Baker Street instead of going home from a rough shift at the surgery really didn’t warrant such abuse, and John had half a mind to turn right back around and go back down the stairs. Of course, the other half of his mind was curious to know what, exactly, his madhat friend was talking about this time. The next half of his brain just wanted to sit down next to Mary on the sofa and have a nice cuppa while watching mindless telly for a while and when did three halves make a whole? His mind really didn’t like maths after being puked on. Twice.

He decided to throw in his own non-sequitur. “I can’t do fractions right now.” He set the bag of tinned beans and biscuits next to Sherlock’s shoes and sighed. Sherlock was stationed in his usual spot in front of the leftmost window, violin tucked under his chin and bow hanging limply from his hand. “Why do I have left feet?”

“You can’t dance.”

 _Oh, a dancing metaphor. Perfect._ “I can dance perfectly fine, thank you very much.” Leaving the bag where it was, John toed his shoes off and slipped out of his jacket, hanging it on the hook and heading into the kitchen. He obviously was going to need copious amounts of tea for this conversation. “Mary even said so.”

“Mary told me that you can dance to what people call music nowadays. That’s not dancing.”

“Oh?”

“It’s random movements of arms and legs and torsos. Hardly dancing.”

John pulled two mugs out of the strainer and flicked open a cupboard for the tea. “And what do you consider dancing, then?”

“Mmmm.”

And that was all he was going to get out of Sherlock, apparently. John hummed back at him and poured water into the electric kettle. A single note warbled through the air, and John smiled as the note turned into a simple melody, a happy sounding one. Far from a musical philistine, John could pick out Bach from Mozart, Tchaikovsky from Chopin. This didn’t sound like any of those composers. As the water boiled, John swayed to the music being coaxed from the violin in Sherlock’s skilled hands, closing his eyes and letting the soft melody seep through tired bones and take away the memories of the day.

“Hm. Mary may have been wrong. You do seem to have a good rhythm and a good ear for the beat.” Sherlock sounded much closer than the music warranted, and John turned around. The violin was nowhere to be found.

“Oh. You aren’t…” He craned his head over Sherlock’s shoulder where he stood in the wide foyer. Sherlock’s phone sat on a portable speaker system, lit up and playing from its memory banks. “Ah. Thought it was you playing.”

“I am. Well, technically.” Sherlock smiled and slipped his hands into his pockets. He looked...different. Strange. The way he looked at John, with something John couldn’t place a finger on dancing in his ethereal eyes…Suddenly, the look was gone, replaced with a small amount of pride that was accompanied by a small smile. “I recorded this earlier. Mary did tell you I was composing, didn’t she?”

“Ah. Yes.” John nodded. It still amazed him that he was friends with such a brilliant man. No. No, what amazed him that this man in front of him, a man that was so smart and talented and incredible, would accept him - him, John bloody Watson - as a friend. “That’s...when she told me, I have to say that I was taken aback. I mean, you are going through all this trouble…” He waved his hand ineffectually, trying to encompass all the words that weren’t getting past his British Male Filter. “Thank you.” He nodded again. “And thank you for the vote of confidence on the dancing bit.”

Sherlock smirked. “Oh, I wouldn’t say that. You still need to learn how to dance. I just noticed that it isn’t going to be too terribly hard to teach you after all.”

John’s brows rose. “Thanks. I think.” He blinked. “Wait, teach me? You? You are going to teach me how to dance?”

John had to hold back a snort at Sherlock’s mildly affronted expression. “Of course! How else are you going to learn?”

“I could take a class?”

“Ugh.” Sherlock rolled his eyes. “A class. Really? For an astronomical price, they would only teach you to trip over your feet and make a fool out of yourself. Save your money for the sex holiday.”

John turned around to fill the mugs with tea bags and hot water. “Sex holiday? Sherlock, it’s a honeymoon.”

“And that is exactly what a honeymoon entails. Lots of sex, sunshine, and sightseeing, with more sex thrown in to keep things interesting. And seeing as you and Mary really enjoy having sex to begin with, judging by your tendancy to button your collars even further now...”

“Ok, Sherlock.” John rolled his eyes.

“...and you are even wearing scarves now, when did you start wearing scarves…”

John had to press his lips together to keep from laughing out loud. “Yes, alright. Yes. Sex. Sex will happen on the honeymoon, and I will save my money if you are really keen on teaching me how to dance.” He turned back around and handed Sherlock his tea. “So. Dancing.”

“Yes.” Steely determination settled onto Sherlock’s face, and John had a flashback to one of his mates from the Army. It was the same face the lad - Sean - would get just before going out on a patrol.

“Jeeze, I don’t think it’s going to be that bad!” John chortled into his tea. “I’m not that bad.” He sipped a little more and smirked. “Why do you think I’m going to be bad?”

Sherlock waved his hand. “Nevermind that.” He chewed on his bottom lip and narrowed his eyes, peering hard at John. His hands tightened just a tiny bit on his mug of tea. “Dancing. Yes, you are probably rubbish right now, but after today, you will be better. Yes.” He whirled around, his dressing gown flaring in that oh so dramatic way as he stalked into the sitting room and paused the music. “Come in here, John.”

Resigning himself to his fate with good humour, John did as he was asked, taking his mug with him. “Alright, so I’m going to go ahead and assume that you actually know how to dance.”

“Of course I do.” Sherlock turned around and beamed at John. “I love to dance.”

This was something John didn’t know about his best friend. It left him floored, honestly. “You.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Yes, me.” And he pressed play on his phone again and held one arm up, curling the other around an imaginary partner as he stepped into an elegant dance. As he twirled and swirled around, John noticed little more than Sherlock’s eyes closed in what looked to be pure pleasure. His angular face softened with the emotion, and John was gobsmacked. He stood stock still as Sherlock moved around the space, around him, in step and in time with the music playing on his phone. Belatedly, John remembered what it was - a waltz. It looked...complicated.

Of course, Sherlock made it look as easy as breathing.

The song didn’t last long, and neither did Sherlock’s sudden display of grace, much to John’s dismay. Sherlock stopped in the middle of the room and lowered his arms. He let out a breath, and his whole body slumped from the poised perfection - _perfection? Oh, God don’t think that John, you sod!_ \- to his usual off-case posture. He turned to John, the grin gone. It was replaced with the unreadable expression once more. His eyes burrowed into John, into his brain and his soul, and a small voice in the back of his mind told him that those eyes were sad. _Why sad?_

John offered up an impressed smile and cocked his head. “Yeah, okay, that was…” He shook his head in amazement. “Brilliant. Beautiful. Stunning.”

Sherlock brightened. “Really?”

“Yes, of course. Yes. You can certainly dance.” John swallowed. “But that looked much too complicated for a muggle like me.” He had to laugh at the confused look on Sherlock’s face. “Sorry, pop culture reference, went straight over your head, didn’t it?”

“No. I understood the Harry Potter reference. What I don’t understand is how what I just did was in any way complicated. It was a simple box step.”

John must have looked lost, because Sherlock groaned in frustration. “Oh, for the love of - alright. Fine. Come here, I’ll show you.”

 


	2. Chapter 2

John couldn’t quite believe what was happening to him.

The facts were plain to see. He was in his best friend’s sitting room - that used to be both of theirs - one hand light on Sherlock’s upper arm, the other resting in Sherlock’s much larger hand. There was a lot of distance between them. _As there should be,_ John muttered in the back of his mind. Or maybe it was someone else. He told the voice to shut up for a bit and let him enjoy this lesson. 

Once again, Sherlock showed his propensity for reading minds. “The distance is so you don’t trample my toes. You may be smaller, but you are heavier and tend to stomp around like a mad water buffalo -”

“Alright, yes, I get it!” John huffed out a breath. He wasn't annoyed, not really. He was getting used to it all over again, the offhanded insults-that-weren't-quite-insults. “Well, let’s get on with it, then.”

Sherlock nodded once, swallowed, blinked at John, then nodded again as if he'd just had an inner argument and had won...or lost. “Yes, shall we?” He leaned down and pressed ‘play’ on his phone, and the music started up again. John counted the beats in his head, and tried to move forward. Sherlock stood still. “Wait.”

“What’s wrong?”

“You have to feel it. Feel the music move through you, let it lead your motions.” Sherlock's voice had dropped a couple decibels and an octave. His face was unreadable again, but his hands stayed right where they were.

John sighed. “Alright.” He looked everywhere but into Sherlock’s eyes, or at his face, or at his throat, or even at his shoulders. He settled for looking at the steer head on the wall and feeling like laughing at the ridiculous thing. “You still won’t get rid of it, will you?”

Sherlock shook his head, his lips in a questioning moue. “What?”

“That head on the wall.”

“No! I like it.”

John smiled at him, then. “I know. Mrs. Hudson had wanted to bin it when -” And there, he stopped. He couldn’t continue that line of conversation, not even now, even when the madman was standing right in front of him, holding his bloody hand and looking at him like he was a puzzle. A particularly sad puzzle, by the looks of him, and _what was wrong with him?_ “Sherlock?” He squinted. “Is something the matter?”

Sherlock shook his head again. “No. I’m fine.” He took a breath and shook his shoulders. “Right, then. The box step. Simplest thing ever. I lead. I step on one with my left foot, you step back with your right. On two, move to the side with my right, your left. On three, we come to a stop. Feel the music, John.” And suddenly, he moved.

John had to scramble to catch up, but he did with remarkable speed. He kept going over Sherlock’s words in his head - _his left, my right, his right, my left_ \- as he moved, danced with Sherlock. _Holy shit, I’m dancing with Sherlock Holmes. This is one for the records._ He couldn’t help the stupid grin that threatened to split his face in half. He’d expected them to stop almost immediately with some indignant ‘You’re doing it wrong, John, pay attention’, but they didn’t. As the music wound on, Sherlock kept dancing, taking them in an ever-widening and winding path through the sitting room, barely dodging furniture and stacks of files and papers and...things. Well, John did bump into the coffee table, but when he looked up in apology, Sherlock’s small smile quashed all thoughts and left them to die in John’s mind.

_That smile could win a thousand hearts if he'd let it._

He had his eyes closed, too, not tightly but just closed. The corner of his mouth hooked up the smallest bit, and John could honestly say that he’d never seen Sherlock so relaxed and happy. Ever. Not even on a locked-room case. John wanted to know what he was envisioning behind those eyelids. It wasn’t until Sherlock nearly ran them into the computer table and John smoothly turned them away that John realised he was the one actually leading.

The song came to a slow end, and John stopped moving. Sherlock hummed in satisfaction and stepped a tiny bit closer, his eyes still closed. John could feel the heat of his friend's body, could imagine the languid pace of Sherlock's heart as he sighed happily and -

Sherlock’s eyes snapped open, and he stared down at John in something akin to shock. Horror, even. And there - yes, right there, high colour on Sherlock’s cheeks. He was _blushing. Sherlock Holmes blushes!_

John wanted to poke fun, but he was a better man than that. Some things were better left alone. He matched Sherlock's happy sigh and smiled at him. Sherlock stood stock still and seemed for all the world to be a deer in oncoming headlamps. “That was amazing. You can really dance.”

Sherlock blushed even darker, and he gazed down at his wriggly toes as he spoke. “I took classes. I really do enjoy dancing…” He shut his mouth and swallowed, and John had a feeling something else was there to be said, hiding in the recesses of Sherlock's mind. He let it stay there, in the shadows, and cocked his head.

“Hey. I enjoy dancing too. Is there more you want to teach me?” He couldn’t help but sound eager. Sherlock had been right; that box step or whatever it was called had been really easy. He’d gotten the hang of it quite easily.

Sherlock looked up again, and there was a new fire in his eyes that made John want to laugh. “Oh, yes. Much more. I still have to teach you the reverse step and turns and the underarm turn. It will be sure to impress Mary.” He straightened up and held out his hands again. John went willingly, even more willingly now that he realised that Sherlock really did want to do this. His hands felt comfortable where they lay, warm and soft against shirt and skin. Sherlock’s hand rested lightly on his ribs, and Sherlock counted softly under his breath as the music started again and they danced. Sherlock announced each switch, and John adjusted smoothly.

If they stood a little closer to each other this time around, Sherlock didn’t make a note of it out loud. If John’s hand tightened infinitesimally around Sherlock’s, John didn’t seem to mind. And if either one of them saw Mrs. Hudson watching from the entrance to the sitting room from the stairwell, well...neither one of them did, actually. If they had, they would have stopped on a dime and made the usual male coughs and shirt-straightening and excuses. But they didn’t, so they carried on dancing, each in their own little worlds as the music played on.

 

 

 

Martha Hudson, old soul that she was, watched with a careful eye, keeping a tight grip on the tea platter she’d made up as soon as she’d heard John go up the steps. She noticed all the things her boys didn’t.

John’s happiness at being (nearly) the center of Sherlock’s attention once more, eyes closed and humming along with the music, leg not hindering him in the slightest and a bright smile plastered on his face that made him look ages younger.

Sherlock watching John with a mixture of emotions on his animated face, sad eyes and bemused smile and hints of colour high on his cheekbones, pressing a little closer than necessary as he led John across the carpet.

 _Oh, you boys. You poor, poor boys._ Martha pressed thin lips together and sighed softly in pity for Sherlock. _Marriage changes people, Sherlock._


End file.
